


and it felt like a kiss

by Arianne, patrexes



Series: Kinktober 2019 [16]
Category: Final Fantasy XIV
Genre: Blood and Injury, Canon Consensual Incestuous Relationship, Clothed Sex, F/M, Fingerfucking, Flogging, Implied Watersports, Kinktober 2019, Military Uniforms, Public Claiming
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-16
Updated: 2019-10-16
Packaged: 2020-12-20 21:44:04
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,350
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21063668
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Arianne/pseuds/Arianne, https://archiveofourown.org/users/patrexes/pseuds/patrexes
Summary: Livia imagines she can feel Gaius’ gaze shift from the soldier to her.





	and it felt like a kiss

**Author's Note:**

> prompt: uniforms

Striking bare skin, the crack of the whip resounds a heartbeat before it tears a cry from the soldier’s throat. He arches his back, twists in his bonds as if to get away, or evade the next. The bite of the lash splits his skin—and in spite of the display he makes, bleeding bright red that will soon enough trickle down his back, Livia imagines she can feel Gaius’ gaze shift from the soldier to her as she lands her second blow.

The soldier, after all, is nobody. Gaius did not so much as bother to tell Livia his name, if he himself knew it—only that he had been caught assaulting an Ala Mhigan. His speech to the assembled soldiers and civilians was simply that the soldier was to serve as an example to all who might find themselves in need of remembering that law and order reigned in Ala Mhigo as it did in Garlemald, and then he had stood back to oversee the provision of that example: thirty lashes, as vicious as Livia cared to make them without the punishment becoming an execution.

Gaius’ attention on her and a whip in her hand, Livia fast falls into a rhythm. At once it’s calming and exciting: hyperaware of the burn in her arm from casting the lash again and again, of her growing arousal, of how _public_ this sanctioned brutality is. There are hundreds assembled here, all eyes are upon her, and only one man will recognize for what it is the way her right hand makes a claw of itself. She presses her fingertips against the plate of her cuisse, rocks forward into her swing on the balls of her feet, and grateful for the veil of her helmet, she bites her lip. She thinks she still feels the weight of Gaius’ gaze, but does not dare look away from her task, the soldier opening his wrists as he writhes in his bonds, the stain of his blood on the waist of his trousers. She cannot tell if he has stopped screaming, or if she merely does not hear it. She whips him again, on her rhythm or a bit quicker, pace hastening with her pulse that she can feel throbbing in her cunt—

“Sas Junius, that’s _enough_.”

She stays her hand in the midst of a stroke, and stands at attention. There is naught but severity in his voice, more the Legatus commanding his Tribunus than father scolding his daughter. As he turns from her to the assembly, again she does not hear, instead attempting to remember at which stroke she had lost count.

When Gaius has finished, he turns to her, and says only, “Tribunus, a word.”

She imagines she can hear his inevitable lecture as she goes to follow: how necessary _moderation_ is in a military officer, with some miserable, droning story about his own time as Tribunus of the XIth…

She trails him several paces behind on the path to the imperial palace, until he turns an unexpected corner—and when she catches up, shoves her back to the wall.

The force of the impact is blunted by her armor but still a full-body jolt, knocking the breath from her lungs—but he’s leaning close, looming over her with hands on her shoulders. She can feel his thigh pressing between hers, hear his breath rasping, loud enough to be picked up by the microphone in his helmet.

“You were distracted,” he starts, low-voiced, and if she must get a lecture at least she can have it pinned between Gaius and the brick, and _surely_ when it was he who’d put her in such a vulnerable position he could not criticize her for grinding against a ridge in his plate— “How wet are you?”

_Oh_. This is _much_ better than a lecture.

“The carbonweave will be ruined,” she gasps, “if it isn’t already—” and it must be, riding his thigh, the rough edges of his cuisse dragging against her swollen clit with only the fabric between them.

“The quartermaster must be sick of you by now,” he says, “requisitioning new trousers every time you need to get yourself off. Can’t even control yourself long enough to make it to your quarters.” But he is as desperate for it as she, his cock hard against her hip. “You want them to watch, don’t you, Tribunus? If you had your way, I would have bent you over the whipping post and taken this loose hole in front of your men. Shown them who you belonged to,” and she nods, gasps _yes_, and there is _nothing_ her father could do that would make Livia ask him to stop touching her.

He replaces his thigh with the searching press of his gloved fingers; he can’t tear the carbonweave but the seams are sewn with linen thread, and the claw-tips on his gloves snap the stitches as he drags his fingers between her legs. The seam torn, her cunt exposed to the air, her father pries apart her lips, pierces them with the sharp claw-tips to pin them open. Her blood will stain his gloves, her slick already _has_—

“If I ordered you to piss yourself right now,” he said, barely audible over her own heartbeat, pounding in her ears, “would you obey?”

Faint, she says: “Piss in your hand, or come on it?”

Gaius laughs, the sound through his helmet a burst of static, and rather than reply—his point proved by her answer, of course she will obey him, _always_, anything he wants if he only says the word—he lets the lips of her cunt free to punch his fingers into her, and Livia’s cry comes so high-pitched there’s feedback from her helmet’s speaker.

“For once, girl, keep your voice down,” he orders, and he sounds not at all like the Legatus in this moment, needy for her as he ever has been. This is all her father, her great love, and Livia bites her lip through his thrusts, curling his fingers careless of her inner walls, the use making her cunt burn, her blood dripping on the cobblestones. She’s ever been shameless, as her father has so often told her, and he loves how she cries out for him, how she simply _cries_, so Livia has little practice being quiet. Even trying, swallowing back moans as she rocks up into his fingers, forcing herself not to give voice to her begging _please, please, harder, I need—_ her helmet still issues the hard static of her panting, the ragged gasp Gaius drags from her when his gloved fingers find sensitive nerves and he digs steel claws into her.

“You’ll be limping to your quarters,” her father says—_yes, yes, yes_ she mouths, silent for his order but she wants so desperately for him to hear it—and, “What will you say when they look between your legs to spy the wreck I’ve made of your cunt?”

Livia’s unable to hold back her whine at the thought, and tears come to the corners of her eyes for how hard she is trying to control herself; she’s rocking desperate into him with no rhythm in her need, grinding her clit into his palm, but without an order she can’t let go, not yet. “I—”

“You need to piss?” he asks, and Livia hates how he can sound so _calm_ when she is coming apart beneath him, like he’s not affected at all even with the hard line of his cock burning against her shaking thigh.

She jerks her head in the closest thing to a nod she can manage, does it again and again because anything she can do to distract herself from the stinging wounds in her cunt, how good it hurts, she must needs latch onto. She’s so close, she needs it, she needs him, she—

“Consider this an order, then, Tribunus,” he says, and she has not yet begun to recover from the cost of her obedience when he takes her hand by the wrist and grinds her armored palm into his cock.


End file.
